


I Don't Want to Spoil the Party

by Naturelover422



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Brotherly Love, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Sick Character, Sickfic, Tonsillitis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7205669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naturelover422/pseuds/Naturelover422
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mandatory photo shoot taking place in July of 1964 goes awry for an ailing Ringo Starr. Based somewhat on a true occurrence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Think for Yourself

“Rise and shine, boys!!” Brian Epstein called energetically, poking his head in through the newly opened door of the Beatles’ shared suite. “We’ve got quite the busy day ahead of us!”

When no one answered, the manager heaved a sigh and proceeded to enter into the suite’s lavishly styled sitting room, taking care to close the door behind him. Knowing his way about the place by this point in time, he crossed the large room toward where he understood the bedrooms to be. There were two of them he’d initially understood when he’d booked the place. As was the case the majority of the time, such inadequate sleeping space would often lead to the sharing of bedrooms, something he highly favored and even promoted when he could. Bonding during downtime in his opinion, even when forced, was the key to a successful band.

Stepping into a minor hallway, Brian was suddenly faced with three doorways. The one closest to him in vicinity was opened slightly ajar, helping him to uncover within it, a bathroom-like atmosphere. Of course, the obvious assumption to make would be that the remaining doors were the gateways to the bedrooms of his band. Both doors were closed still to the manager’s dismay, sealing his beliefs that the lazy lads still had yet to awaken. Brian sighed again. He was forever keeping these boys on their toes. He approached the closest of the two mystery doors with a bit of haste and proceeded to knock sternly and rapidly three times. Approaching the other shortly after, he did the same. “Wake up!” he called sharply, loud enough for all to hear, “We’ve a photo shoot in less than two hours!”

More silence greeted his ears.

“I’m not above bloody breaking into yer bedrooms!” Eppy threatened, his irritation only continuing to grow, “I know you can hear me!!”

Another instance of silence flooded his ears before it was suddenly eaten up by Lennon’s sleep-clogged voice through the door. “You’d like a glimpse into our bedrooms, wouldn’t yer, y’bleedin’ fairy!”

Brian rolled his eyes. Typical Lennon. Blessed with the gift of derisory mockery even first thing in the morning. “What I’d _like_ , would be _highly_ illegal in most parts of the world, Lennon,” he retorted through gritted teeth.

There was only a moment’s pause before the rhythm guitarist filled it, as he would. “Sounds vulgar, Eppy. Downright naughty,” he suggestively teased back, “Some of the best things are left to imagination, y’know.” There was an additional string of amused laughter that sounded like it was coming from Paul.

Under pronounced concentration, Brian could almost see Lennon’s leering face as he’d stare down his nose at him. Those eyes of his, holding him captive as though he were the only other person in the world. He fought back an enticing shiver and allowed for professionalism to overtake him once more as the realization that he was growing quite frustrated with the younger lad reasserted itself. With another roll of the eyes, he laid an insistent hand against the smooth form of the wooden door as though to transfer through it, all his disapproving feelings on the unraveling matter, “John—” he sternly began.

“Oh come off it, Eppy…” John calmly relayed through the barrier. It was clear that he wasn’t blind to the tone Brian had chosen to use, “No need to get yer bloomers twisted up yer arse at this hour.”

“I’m about to do _more_ than that, Lennon!” Eppy growled back.

“Please, spare me kind sir,” John could be heard quipping in response.

“Just chivy it along, will you, boys?!” Eppy exasperatedly responded after a moment more. He turned away from Lennon and McCartney’s door, taking the time to address the other door as well. “That goes for _all_ of you!!” he emphasized, “George, Ringo, I know you can hear me! I’ll be back for you all in forty-five minutes!! Make sure you’ve washed up and eaten by then.”

“I call the loo!” Brian heard Paul call as he proceeded to leave the hallway, on his way out from the suite. Somehow though, he couldn’t begin to mask a resulting chuckle stemming from his experience. Quite a group these lads were. Quite the group.

* * *

George was the first one out of the bedroom and as a result, the first one into the bath for a much fancied cleansing to the immediate annoyance of Paul. It was a proven fact that the lead guitarist could spend hours at a time if one let him, just taking in the warmth and offered comfort of a bath. He’d often succumb to a meditative state of mind which he believed would give him vigor enough to get through any day. As used to such George-ish mannerisms as the Beatles were, such a wait at this point could destroy the day completely especially when looking at the ‘sunny’ mood of their manager. While, John couldn’t care less about what set Eppy off, Paul wouldn’t shut up about it. The bassist was always in favor of things going as smoothly as possible. Anything endangering these conditions would often send him into full tantrum mode. As far as John was concerned, the tightly wound bloke could stand to relax a bit and let things work themselves out.

“Just eat something, would ye’?” he snapped irritably, “Yer especially annoying when you’ve yet to eat. It’s way too early fer the ‘eadache yer clearly setting out to give us all!”

“ _Yer_ one to talk, _Lennon_ ,” Paul retorted sardonically, setting two cereal bowls down on the kitchen table, “‘Cause clearly yer _so_ angelic in the mornings.”

“I _know_ I’m an arsehole, love,” John affirmed, turning to look at him with wry smirk, “In truth, yer only flattering me.”

“My day’s work is complete, then,” Paul muttered shortly in response. He ended up in resulting grin, nonetheless.

John retrieved a box of cornflakes and proceeded to pour a little for both him and Paul while the bassist slipped away to make a pot of tea for the four of them.

“Where’s Ritch?” he muttered offhandedly after a while, the realization that he still had yet to see the lively drummer suddenly occurring to him. He placed the still open box of cereal off to the side and stared at the back of Paul’s head. “Isn’t he normally one of the first ones up? How is it _I’m_ up before _him_?” He sounded cross over this revelation, more so jealous.

Paul finished setting the water to boil and turned to face his mate in growing wonderment of his own, “I… don’t know…” he responded hesitantly, the peculiarity of the situation suddenly sinking in. “…Y’don’t suppose he’s still asleep, do ye’?”

John shrugged as he sat down to his breakfast, “Probably jus’ got lost on ‘is way outta bed,” he quipped half-truthfully, “‘Appens to the best of us, y’know.”

“ _You_ especially,” Paul smirked fleetingly at him. His teasing frame of mind evaporated as quickly as it had come on, “Still, ‘s’not quite like Ritch to sleep in especially following a scolding from Eppy. I’m going to check on ‘im, meself. See if he’s up.”

“Don’t be long or yer cereal will go soggy!” John responded through a mouthful. He swallowed hastily, “Worse, George may smell it from the bath and help himself!”

“Not unless he fancies a crippling,” was Paul’s only response.

The bassist retraced the steps he had taken initially to escape his bedroom, stopping short just outside the closed door that was the room shared by George and Ringo. George had exited nearly fifteen minutes ago, but somehow the drummer still had yet to make his long accounted for appearance. Paul couldn’t help a slight feeling of concern as he settled a hand on the doorknob and brought an ear to the door. He couldn’t hear a thing through the wooden barrier.

“Rings, y’decent in there?” he called through it, “Yer up?” The sound of hoarse coughing greeted his ears, causing him to flinch slightly, “Ritch?” Paul called, more hesitantly this time.

“I’m up!” came a strained voice, “Jus’… ‘aving a bit of trouble getting going this morning it would seem…”

“You all right?” Paul questioned for the sake of further investigation, remembering suddenly that the tiny drummer hadn’t been up to par, even last night. He had slipped off to bed earlier than usual, claiming that he wasn’t feeling well. Paul frowned reactively. “Are ye’ still feeling off color, love?” he called through the door, “Y’sound right awful!”

“ _Fine_ … jus’ this sore throat.” was Ringo’s response.

“Y’need fer us to send fer a doctor?”

There was a small moment of hesitation before Ringo responded, “Nah, I think I’m all right, Paul. Be out in a moment.”

“Y’sure, love?”

“Yes, Macca,” the drummer raspily griped through the door, his mind sounding set and made up, “Besides, I’d rather not give Brian any reason fer discouragement this early in the day.”

“Yes well… that’s understandable,” McCartney acknowledged, genuinely taking his words into fair consideration, “But if yer ill… I think he should have to come to terms with it. These things happen whether we wish for it or n—”

“…or not, I know,” Ringo impatiently finished, slight irritation beginning to permeate his voice by this time, “But really, I think I’ll stick it out. I’m not bedridden, y’know. Lay off already. Quit nagging.”

Paul pulled away from the door, feeling somehow even less at ease now than even before he’d approached the door. One thing had registered in his mind, since. In the several years that he’d known the drummer, it was highly unlike him to ever come off so ornery this early on in the day. It was rather unsettling, really. “Fine,” the bassist gradually replied, his tone, curt and clipped, inadvertently presenting itself in the only way he knew how when someone seemed keen on pushing him away, “Come out when yer good and ready, then. Tea is on. Will you be up for brekky?”

“Maybe, I suppose.”

“‘S’nothing on the menu but cereal this morning,” Paul took a further moment to tentatively inform him.

“Wonderful. A five star meal in the making,” Ringo muttered petulantly, his words lacking all of their usual gusto, “I can hardly contain meself as it were.”

Paul’s frown lengthened, “Yeah well, there isn’t time fer anything more. Brian’s got us on a deadline… so try not to be long.”

“Gear,” Ringo murmured out a response even less enthusiastic than his last one, “Ta, then.”

By the time Paul returned to the kitchen table, John was halfway finished with his breakfast. Without much in the way of thought, the bass player sat down to join him, beginning automatically the mechanical task of eating, his mind clearly elsewhere all the while.

John watched him discreetly from across the table for a bit as the younger musician shoveled in spoonful after spoonful, his settled gaze never quite leaving his bowl. As the silence gradually became too much to handle, Lennon found himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “No tea, then?” he spoke up finally, bluntly, offering an arched eyebrow of curiosity in his mate’s direction. As if right on cue, the kettle directly on the spot, began its loud, whistling plea for attention.

Paul looked up in a bit of surprise, the kettle plus Lennon’s words managing somehow to pull him out from the inner workings of his mind. The exact meaning of the rhythm guitarist’s spoken words evaded him, however, as the kettle’s steady, plaintive whine having taken immediate and total command over everything, worked to drown out all things sense-worthy, words included. “What?” he found himself lamely asking, in search of immediate clarification.

“No tea?”

As elucidation found its way home, Paul’s eyes narrowed fitfully on the rhythm guitarist, speaking volumes all their own. “You’ve legs of yer own, haven’t ye’? I’m not yer maid, y’know.”

“Well, you’ve started it. I jus’ as well assumed you’d finish it,” Lennon worked quickly to defend himself, practically shouting over the ongoing high-pitched whistling, “It’s logic if I ever heard it.”

Failing to pay him any additional mind, Paul made no effort at responding.

Realizing their usual banter wasn’t going to work this morning to his usual advantage, John rose finally from his seat and decisively took over the act of tending to the hot water. He worked deftly to pour both him and Paul cups and before long, had them both sitting enticingly on the table, twin towers of steam rising from each of them.

“ _Well_?” he piped up again, rejoining McCartney at the table, an eyebrow arched suggestively in his direction.

And Paul jumped forth once more, noticing for the first time the steaming cup of tea situated in front of him. “Oh uh… ta, Johnny…” he mumbled appreciatively albeit clumsily, scrounging up a sheepish smile all the while.

Lennon narrowed his eyes cuttingly. “Never mind the tea, y’sod!” He paused, jerking his head slightly in the general direction of their bedrooms, “Where’s he, then?”

“Who?” Shoveling another spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth, Paul looked up once again, his innocent gaze meeting his counterpart’s in utter bemusement, “Ringo?”

“Bing fucking Crosby.” John derisively deadpanned. With an added snort, he looked the bassist sternly up and down, remaining straight-faced and somewhat irritated.

Paul chuckled awkwardly in the face of his mate’s blunt mix of sarcasm and frustration, his mouth full of cereal, “Right. _Ringo,_ y’mean. He’s uh… readying himself.”

“He all right, then?”

“I think so…” Paul uncertainly revealed, searching his head and fumbling for the right words in a pronounced effort to come off in any way other than the overanalyzer that he was sometimes known to be, “He’s feeling under the weather, though. Says he’s got himself a sore throat.”

“How’d he sound?” John asked, complete seriousness on the matter permeating his voice, “He was starting t’sound dead grotty last night, really.”

“Well he _still_ sounds right awful if ye’ ask me,” came McCartney’s truthful response.

John thoughtfully processed the bassist’s revelation before decisively forming the most positive approach to the situation that he could readily think of, “Well, it’s a good thing he’s a bloody lousy singer then, anyroad,” he offhandedly teased, “No one would ever know to expect better of ‘im.”

Paul stifled a chuckle, nearly choking on a spoonful of milk and cornflakes, “Yer a bleedin’ bastard sometimes, y’know that?” he playfully chastised, “The least y’could do is _wait_ until Ring is here t’bloody defend himself to that barbed tongue of yers!”

“ _Bastard_ , eh?” Lennon gazed mockingly at the bassist, a goading smirk gracing his face as he longingly dwelled on such a word, “Is that a step up from arsehole?”

“Not even on a good day, m’dear,” Paul quickly retorted, a smirk of his own blossoming across his handsome features.

John’s face fell into a simulated attempt at lack of amusement. “Y’can piss off anytime, Snow White. I’ve a poison apple with yer bloody name on it.”

Paul laughed. “Maybe so, but I get the kiss in the end, y’know.”

John narrowed his eyes briefly, “From _who_?” he jeered, “Ringo the wonder-dwarf? Y’better pucker up then. I ‘ear he fancies you just as well, Macca!” The rhythm guitarist mock swooned and made a show of batting his eyelashes at the bassist.

“Well, Brian fancies _you_ , Lennon,” McCartney playfully tossed back, “And there isn’t much out there to top such sexual tension. _Believe_ me!”

John’s face melted back into an all-out portrayal of seriousness. “Always tossing that one in me face, aren’t yer?” he asked.

“As though y’don’t enjoy lording it over the poor sap,” McCartney deliberately pointed out, a mischievous glint finding his hazel eyes.

John smirked knowingly but refused to comment anymore on the subject. Instead he batted his eyelashes some more, “Word on the street is y’fancy me as well,” he prodded good-naturedly.

“Every day of me life, darhling,” Paul retorted, laughing once more, “You radiate such sex appeal, I can hardly stand it. Cyn’s a lucky girl, y’know!”

John beamed brightly. “Yer Jane said the same thing last night, I’ll have y’know,” he wittily taunted, the words tumbling out as quickly as they’d formed in his mind.

“Yer a regular riot, Lennon,” Paul countered, feigning indignation, “Get yer own show, y’should. Cater to that larger-than-life ego of yers.”

John opened his mouth about to unleash a witty retort, when the supplementary sound of tired feet dragging across the dining room’s linoleum floor tore his attention away from the subject at hand in all its entirety. Automatically seeking out the source, his eyes gravitated towards the newly-made ruckus, his gaze uncloaking in a fit of surprise, Ringo’s pajama-clad form.

 “Ringo, y’made it back!” the rhythm guitarist went on to loudly profess, eyes wide in mock surprise, “Why, I thought y’were lost at sea!”

“ _Yer_ lost at sea, son,” Ringo hoarsely retaliated, making his way over to the stove for a throat-relieving cup of tea.

“Aye, but at least I rather don’t _look_ or bloody _sound_ like I’ve been through the mill,” Lennon bluntly tossed back.

“Well, y’may not _sound_ it, Lennon,” Paul agreeably quipped with a fleeting smirk, “But _I_ wouldn’t go as far as to address yer looks just yet.”

Ringo looked up at the bass player in utmost wonderment before shifting his attention momentarily to John. How was it that the two had enough energy so early on to go at it the way they were? The Lennon-McCartney relationship baffled him as much as it intrigued him.

Lennon impatiently waved McCartney off as though the bassist were nothing more than an annoying mosquito buzzing in his ear, “What I’m trying t’say, _Ritch_ , is that y’sound even worse than last night, y’know!”

“Ta, Lennon,” Ringo muttered flatly, “Compassionate, that.” Having poured himself a successful cup, he approached the table and set it down immediately so as not to end up spilling its hot contents everywhere. Shaky as he felt this morning, it was only a matter of time before such a thing were to unfold and he honestly didn’t feel like being the butt of any jokes today, even his mates. He could hear Lennon now, carrying on flippantly about how he’d gone and had so much to drink, he couldn’t properly navigate his way about himself any longer. And while the drummer could normally take it and dish it back readily on the same level as the others, today it all seemed like too much extra work. He was lucky he’d even been able to drag himself out from his bed for starters. With a tired sigh, he pulled out a chair at an unoccupied side of the rectangular table and dropped himself into a seated position in a defeated manner that suggested it was all he had the energy for. It was going to be a trying day at best.

“How’re we feeling this morning, anyroad?” John casually asked, looking to hear Paul’s revelations directly from the mouth of his older mate.

“Like I’d been dragged through that mill you so kindly pointed out I’d been through,” Ringo admitted, fixing his younger friend with a half-hearted glare. He turned and coughed hoarsely, wincing as a gentle hand found his throat, “I reckon I’ll have t’be okay though. As Brian would most likely tell me, a day of leisure is completely out of question.”

Pulling his tea closer, he wrapped his hands around it, relishing in the warmth it provided. In a manner nearly invisible to the naked eye, he shivered, vaguely wishing that he had what it took to shrink himself for the sole purpose of concealing his entire half-frozen body within the heated contents of his cup.

“But look at ye’, yer cold!” Paul perceptively acknowledged, “And in the middle of an American summer. This won’t do, will it?”

“It’ll have to,” Ringo sighed.

“Will it _now_?” Lennon looked unconvinced as he continually eyed the drummer skeptically and analytically. “And what good do’ye’ suppose will come of lying to yerself? To yer mates?”

“It’s called _optimism_ ,” Ringo glared at him, “You’d know nothing of it least of all, John.”

Eyebrow arched, Lennon turned briefly to McCartney who simply shrugged. “We’ve gone and gotten ourselves a stroppy drummer,” the bassist revealed in minimal amusement, “Who knew?”

“And he’s usually so tamed and well-behaved!” Lennon concurred. He turned his attention back to Ringo who was glowering now in both their directions, his surly attitude taking immediate lead over everything. “Bad Ringo, bad!” John playfully scolded, looking to get a rise out of him.

Ringo didn’t laugh. “Keep it up, John Lennon. I bite,” he warned, “Whatever it is I’ve got, could easily become yer problem!”

“It’s already our problem, love. Yer ill,” the rhythm guitarist unnecessarily affirmed, “And when you don’t shine, the rest of us suffer greatly!”

There was such dramatic flair to his statement that this time Ringo couldn’t help but crack a wan grin in reaction to it. No matter the circumstances, a John Lennon in good form could always end up making him laugh no matter how hard he’d try to refrain from doing so. “Ah there he is!” Lennon went on, visibly pleased with himself, “There’s our Ringo! Shine fer us, baby!”

Ringo was laughing now, feeling as good as his body would momentarily allow for him to feel. Then just as suddenly, his laughter caught in his throat and he was sent rather hastily into a full-fledged coughing fit.

The impish light in Lennon’s eyes faded and he shoved his chair back before gravitating to the drummer’s side, worry evident in his handsomely strong features. “Christ, I didn’t mean fer y’to choke t’death!” He made a show of patting the drummer on the back as he shakily brought his cup of tea to his lips. The warm liquid brought the tiresome fit to an end almost instantaneously. There were tears of strain in his eyes by the end of it.

“All right?” John asked, towering majestically over the drummer’s seated form.

Visibly shaking now, Ringo managed a wearied nod, the action barely visible throughout his chill-ravaged body.

“Yer not,” John argued knowingly. The bags beneath Ringo’s eyes; a minor supplement from yesterday, were increasingly prominent now like a subtitle helping to glorify his illness. The flush beneath the bags that hugged his cheeks and bridge of his nose were the commanding headlines. The poor bloke just looked utterly miserable. Without really thinking, the back of John’s hand drifted towards the older man’s face seeking out room beneath thick bangs and settling on smooth skin. Traces of heat were imminent. “Yer hot!” he gradually affirmed with the formation of a worried frown.

“He _is_?” Paul questioned in surprise.

“I _am_?” Ringo added, equally thrown for a loop.

John nodded seriously before smirking suddenly in delayed reaction to the dual meaning of the phrasing he’d chosen to use in regards to the drummer’s elevated temperature, “Bet you’ve never heard those words before, have yer?” he impishly jested. The playful mood was short-lived though as seriousness on the matter took over as it would. “Yer right ill, aren’t yer, love?” he sympathetically noted.

“Brian’s going to have a cow and a coupla elephants when he finds out,” Paul sighed.

“When he finds out what?”

Both John and Paul turned in complete harmony to see a bathrobe-clad George, caught in the midst of helping himself to a heaping bowl of cereal. There was no telling how long he’d been there; he’d so quietly joined them.

“Has his majesty _finally_ decided to grace us with his presence?” Lennon sardonically quipped, looking scornfully at him.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Paul quickly followed up.

George shrugged, “I guess neither Neil nor Mal had time t’drop off our outfits yet,” he casually revealed, Scouse accent thick with thought.

John looked irritated. “Y’mean Brian couldn’t be buggered t’bring ‘em by while he’d found the time t’come kick our arses out of bed,” he filled in.

And George shrugged again, “Guess not.”

“Always leaving the dirty work to Mal and Nell,” Lennon shook his head, “In such a hurry as it were, yet we can’t even dress ourselves.”

“It’s their job, isn’t it?” Paul countered, looking closely at Lennon while wondering what exactly was the actual source of his blatant irritation, “It’s why they’re roadies.” Somehow he didn’t think it had anything to do with Brian, Mal, or Neil. It more or less had to do with their drummer and his potentially worsening condition.

In the background, George peered down into the cereal box he’d been fighting with, “I reckon I should make use of the rest of this,” he drawled contemplatively, “There really isn’t much left. It would be rather silly t’leave a few crumbs fer the next person.”

“Just make sure y’let on to Mal and or Nell so they can pick up some more,” John told him, “Or eat us out of house and home, y’will.”

George finished filling his bowl before joining his three mates at the table. It dawned on him suddenly that something was amiss. Ringo for one, looked absolutely god-awful. How hadn’t he noticed that on his way to the bath earlier on? He’d walked by the drummer’s bed without even a single glance in his direction, his one-track mind en route for the hotel’s single bathroom. “Ring, y’look like shite!” he blurted out, internally kicking himself the moment the words dropped from his tongue.

“Well, he’s not feeling so hot either,” Paul vouched, appearing downhearted.

“Worse now with such wording,” John admonished, “Someone oughta put a muzzle on ye’, Harrison!”

McCartney rolled his eyes, “Unbelievable, Lennon. Jus’ a moment ago, you—”

“Will you be all right for the photoshoot?” George asked, forcefully interrupting his mates.

“I think I’ll be,” Ringo nodded, feebly. Tiredly.

“Y’should be unless yer fever goes up,” Paul skeptically stated.

“It won’t if I can help it,” Ringo found the energy to add, supplying a characteristic grin.

“Unless you’ve got yer doctorate’s stored away in that little brain of yers, I wouldn’t be so keen,” John playfully reprimanded.

“I’m full of surprises,” Ringo retorted.

“Be that as it may, ol’ Eppy will be getting an earful from me.”

“Don’t be like that, John,” Ringo hoarsely whined, “Really, I’ll be okay. You heard ‘im this morning. I don’t think there will be much room fer negotiation!”

“Well, yer fucking ill, fever and all!” the rhythm guitarist adamantly snapped, raising his voice a significant amount, “He’s hearing about it! And then we’ll decide as a _band_ , how to carry on.”

No one dared counter his words. Even Ringo who was less than on board with such order. As far as the remaining 3/4ths of the Beatles saw it, Lennon had spoken. And they’d leave it to Brian to dare tell him otherwise.


	2. We Can Work it Out

It was a half hour further into the morning by the time Neil Aspinall arrived bearing the coveted garments for four bathrobe-clad Beatles. McCartney was well aware of the fact by then that they had approximately fifteen minutes if even that to fully complete the task of readying themselves. And then Brian, running on time as he always was, would arrive set and eager to jump-start the trials of the day, no questions asked. Lennon seemed to think that he had some kind of say in regards to how things would play out. And while this was sometimes a plausible occurrence, Paul was convinced it would all work out for the best. Brian had been raving about this photo shoot for days, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it had been labeled mandatory meaning that the Beatles as a whole absolutely had to go through with it, sick drummer and all. As manipulative as John knew how to be, it most likely wouldn’t be enough to overturn even the most minor of shortcomings.

“Why so glum?” Neil asked as he set the garments down on the backside of one of the sitting room chairs. He felt as though he’d just intruded in on something that he wasn’t meant to be a part of, “Don’t you wish to have yer photographs taken?”

George flippantly waved him off, “I could take it or leave it.”

Paul pushed past him, eager to get at the clothing they were destined to wear. He picked up the top outfit labeled ‘George’ and hastily thrust it at him, the force causing the lead guitarist to stumble backwards in surprise. “Here. Take _this_ before we leave _you_ ,” the bass player ordered snippily.

“Everything in order here?” Neil asked, deciding he’d better press if he was to learn anything at all.

“Well, y’waltz in here a mere fifteen minutes before Eppy’s due to show his face,” Paul frantically pointed out, rushing to pull on his slacks beneath his bathrobe, “We’re so far behind schedule, I can’t even see it anymore!”

“I’m doing the best I can with the limited time that I have!” Neil defended himself, “Mal and I can only accomplish so much, y’know!”

John came up behind Paul, looking to grab his outfit as well. He picked up Ringo’s garments in addition to his own and handed them to George, carelessly piling it on top of everything he’d already received from Paul.

“I’ve already got mine!” Harrison started to protest, “These are Ringo’s!”

“Make haste and bring them to him, then,” John sharply commanded.

“Where is Ringo, anyroad?” Neil asked, looking about the sitting room and realizing for the first time that he didn’t see the lively drummer anywhere.

“Down for a minor kip,” Paul softened his edge towards Neil, finally coming to the conclusion within his own mind that he wasn’t truly upset with him. He was rather upset with the way things were going.

The roadie looked surprised, “Our Ringo?” he questioned incredulity ruling his voice.

“He’s a bit under the weather, I think,” Paul reluctantly revealed, “John says he’s got a fever.”

A hint of concern flashed across Aspinall’s face. “Where is he?” he asked.

“His room,” George piped up, “If yer looking to check in on ‘im, y’can take his clothes to him, as well.” He beamed deviously as he handed Ringo’s preselected clothing to the unsuspecting roadie.

Neil took them with a roll of the eyes and proceeded to stand in the same spot, no initial move made to seek out the drummer.

“Well, what y’waiting fer, Nell?” John brusquely asked, as he tugged on his own pair of slacks, using his long robe to his advantage in keeping covered.

“Am I s’pposed to know which room is his?” Neil asked.

John buttoned his pants and quickly moved to tackle his shirt. As he worked to button it, he took a step towards the Beatles’ roadie and longtime friend. “Ah right,” he vocalized all the while with an air of theatricality, “No one’s given ye’the grand tour as of yet.” He took an over-the-top bow, “ _Allow_ me!”

Neil glanced quickly to Paul who innocently shook his head as though to say, _‘He’s yer problem now!’_ The roadie shrugged concededly and allowed for the animated rhythm guitarist to show him the way. John did so, moving about the place with all the flair in the world. Neil couldn’t help but laugh. The man was a natural comedian.

“And here we have the room of Ringo Starr and George Harrison!” Lennon threw open the door, “Behold!” he chirped.

Secure in his bed, wrapped up in an impossible amount of blankets, Ringo turned towards the doorway, bleary blue eyes taking in the added company as they entered. “Neil!” he tiredly acknowledged, struggling to construct a smile.

“And _John_!” Lennon comically added solely for his own benefit. He narrowed his eyes at Ringo, “Or don’t I count?”

The drummer shrugged dismissively, “Well, I’ve seen yer already, Lennon,” he pointed out, a wry grin finally breaking out.

Neil strolled further into the room, a sympathetic smile warming his young face, “How’re y’doing, Ring?” he asked, “I heard yer feeling a bit ill this morning.”

“Got anything on yer person for a cold?” Ringo beseechingly requested, eyes straying to every pocket he could find on the roadie.

“Is that what y’think this is?” Neil asked him, looking closely at him, his eyes radiating concern.

Ringo looked thoughtful for a fleeting moment before dissolving into a look of genuine uncertainty. “I don’t really know. ‘S’mostly me throat, really. I’m not even sneezing or anything.”

It was Neil’s turn to look thoughtful, “I could round up some lozenges to get you through the day. Allow me t’scout about.” He thrust his armful of clothes at the drummer finally, “In the meantime, put these on. Brian should be by any moment now.”

Ringo nodded and gently retrieved the articles of clothing. “I’ll be out in a moment,” he rasped.

Neil nodded and took the liberty of leaving the room, John right behind him.

“I’ll be back with some lozenges,” Neil announced, hurriedly making his way to the suite’s door.

“See ya, then!” George called after him, the lead guitarist finally clad in the clothing he was destined to wear for the day. Deeming himself ready, he sat in one of the sitting room’s two love-seats and waited patiently for the others to catch up.

“Is Ring getting ready?” Paul urgently asked of John. He glanced at his watch, “It’s almost time t’go!”

“No one’s going anywhere until we talk to Brian!” John fiercely snapped.

“And what exactly is it y’think talking to Brian is going to do, John?” Paul countered, placing his hands on his hips as he looked his best mate in the eye, “As long as Ringo thinks he’s able to go about the day, he’s not going to stand in his way and tell him otherwise!”

And for once, John didn’t have an answer. “It’s just… he’s got a fever, y’know,” he spoke softly after a while, “And he sounds fucking awful.”

“I’m _not_ disagreeing with you,” Paul relented, “I just don’t think Brian will— I mean, judging from past experiences…” He trailed off as Ringo entered the room, dragging a boatload of blankets with him. The layered covers draped comfortably over his shoulders, he hugged them to himself, shivering violently beneath them. “ _Blimey_ …” he acknowledged in observation, officially halting his conversation right then.

The drummer traipsed by them en route to the nearest, available seat where he lowered himself next to George, wrapping himself up all the more.

“Ringo, y’dressed, love?” Paul asked, having failed to see any trace of his getup through the mess of blankets surrounding him.

Coughing slightly, the drummer nodded.

“That was quick,” John commented.

“I’ve many tricks up me sleeve,” Ringo found the energy to quip. He coughed once more, wincing in the aftermath.

“Leprechaun magic, no doubt,” Lennon grinned.

And Ringo laughed, coughing even harder as the humor-induced spasms tore through him.

McCartney disapprovingly frowned as he looked on. “Quit making ‘im laugh, y’git!” he ordered of the rhythm guitarist, “He’s suffering enough, as is!”

“Laughter’s the best medicine!” Lennon countered, “Everyone knows that!”

“Not if it kills ‘im first!”

Ringo struggled to get his coughing under control, “I’m fine… really!” he hoarsely choked out.

“And that’s why y’can hardly breathe…” George observed matter-of-factly, gazing at him interest.

“I can!” Ringo pouted with sudden frustration, “It’s jus’ me stupid throat causing this,” he muttered unhappily, “Trying t’kill me, it is!”

Paul sighed, realizing right then what it was they had to do. They _had_ to talk to Brian. Postpone things if they could or leave Ringo behind under the company of Neil or Mal. The drummer was sick. Feverish with chills sick.

“Are we up yet?”

John and Paul heard Brian’s voice long before they saw him enter. But there he was standing just inside the door, his gaze fixated on the two major songwriters of the band.

“Do y’see otherwise?” Lennon skeptically questioned of him, “And don’t yer knock? I could’ve been naked ‘ere.”

Looking at him solely, Brian blushed. “Right er… anyroad, are we ready t’go?” he hurried to ask, eager to hide behind a wall of professionalism.

Paul frowned, “Aye, Brian but… I don’t think Rings is going t’make it.”

“What do you mean?” Brian demanded, his eyes narrowing on the bass player now.

“He’s sick as a fucking dog, Eppy!” John bluntly clarified, “See fer yerself!” He gestured towards the couch where Ringo sat alongside George, the poor thing looking near comatose.

“Ritch, what’s the matter?” Brian inquired, moving quickly towards him.

“‘S’me throat,” the drummer quietly rasped. His following attempt at stifling a shiver as it eased out from him failed miserably and had Brian practically kneeling down to his level.

“Do I need to send fer a doctor?” he asked, his tone riddled with seriousness, “Do you think you’ll be all right?”

The drummer, hurriedly shaking his head at the first question, quickly switched to a nod at the second question. “I’m hoping I will be,” he added.

Brian nodded. But rather than allowing for relief to flood him, the manager instead sought out Ringo’s forehead with the back of his hand. The amount of heat was an automatic tell. The drummer most certainly was not well.

“Ritch, you have a fever!” Eppy confirmed, all but happy with the revelation, “Are you certain, y’won’t be needing a doctor?”

Again, Ringo shook his head, “If it’s all the same t’you,” he croaked, “I’d like to attempt t’get through the day.”

“All right,” Eppy responded with a lack of certainty, “Let’s head on over to the photo shoot then…” He straightened on his feet, “I suppose this is for the best. I simply wouldn’t have been able to reschedule had it come down to such a thing. And the photo shoot does call for all four of you…” He turned to Ringo once more, a stern look gracing his polished features, “However, Ritch, if you start to feel even the least bit worse for wear, you let someone know, got it?”

“Mal er… Nell went t’get some lozenges, anyroad,” John pointed out, “He’s usually good with the sort of thing. He can babysit the lad during the shoot.”

“Who says I need babysitting?” Ringo glanced at John, his eyes narrowing petulantly on him, “I may be the shortest but I am the oldest, y’know. I took care of _you_ , when y’were ill last, didn’t I?”

John shrugged, unperturbed, “Well now it’s our turn to return the favor, lil’ drummer boy,” he asserted.

Ringo rolled his eyes despite comforting feelings of emotional warmth rushing over him. It was rather endearing actually that Lennon of all people wished to help care for him. The rhythm guitarist must’ve appreciated his motherly antics more than initially realized. But then again, it wasn’t as though he’d had a mother of his own to compare to.

“Fine,” he gradually relented, “Do what y’think y’have to do. But no babying me on the set.”

Paul chuckled lightheartedly, “How adorable it is, that y’think ye’have a say on how we treat ye’, Ring!”

“Don’t I?” Ringo challenged.

“Nope,” Harrison hurriedly professed, officially sealing the deal. He was glad that for once someone other than him would be receiving the attention that would otherwise be on him for simply being the youngest… and ‘least experienced’ as Lennon had time and again put it. He didn’t envy Ringo one bit.

“All right, lads!” Brian competently announced, “Gather round! Let me have a look at each of you! Allow me to make sure you meet proper standards!”

“I know _I_ do!” Lennon haughtily crowed, “Or rather _yer_ standards, Eppy-dear!” He narrowed his eyes suggestively on the manager and playfully fluttered his eyelashes.

Brian wasn’t the least bit impressed by such a display, characteristic as it was. “Fix your tie, Lennon,” was his only response.

Paul rolled his eyes as he came up behind Brian, eyeing Lennon’s slightly disheveled appearance all the while, “Allow me, _Johnny-dear_ ,” he suggested, mocking the tone the rhythm guitarist had used on Brian, “I’m forever cleaning up yer act, aren’t I?”

“Well, someone has to,” George innocently quipped.

“Mind yer own business, son,” John glared at him. With a nod for McCartney, he allowed for the bassist to sweep in and perfect his attire as he often would whenever the opportunity would present itself. Paul and Ringo easily had to have been the most maternal-oriented members of the band, he mused.

Paul took a step back when finished and playfully took in his ‘masterpiece’, “Like an artist, I am,” he laughed good-naturedly, “I call this, ‘Lennon in Bloom.’”

John glared at him, a fist raised. “I call this ‘Fist in Bloom’” he snapped, “And it’s got a different kind of opinion fer ye’, y’bloody queer!”

The others laughed.

As the four Beatles gathered subsequently around Brian, he immediately went to work checking each and every one of them with skilled, scrutinizing eyes. Liking what he was faced with now, he turned promptly to the door and proceeded to yank it open, “Come ‘ead now!” he proudly broadcasted, “Out we go! Not a minute t’waste.”

George looked nervously about before following John and Paul out the door, “Shouldn’t we let on t’Neil that we’re leaving?”

“He’s well aware of the time, Geo,” Brian verified, alleviating the lead guitarist’s worries, “He and Mal will meet us at the car, no doubt.”

 


End file.
